


See my family...

by Siff



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BoFA, Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kíli's life without Fíli is hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ...and hate it like I do.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this story is weird. I knew were I wanted to go with it, but it kinda took over and went its own way. So weird. I tried to make it longer but to be honest, I'm best at small stories and short chapters. 
> 
> It's another everyone-dies-and-what-they-feels/thinks-as-they-do, sorry. 
> 
> In mostly all my Hobbit-stories, Dís has died pre-movie. I know she is alive and well in PJ's version, but it breaks my heart to think than she is about to loose her last living brother and her two sons. I can't stand the thought. So I'm perhaps more cruel than that and has decided she is already dead.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

It’s always Bofur who pulls the tankard out of his hand, ignores his drunken protests and drags him away from the tavern and back home.

Sometimes he yells at Bofur, sometimes he laughs, sometimes he cries. Once he swung at Bofur and then he cried.

But mostly he just rambles dark thoughts out of his mouth in a tangled mess of words. There is no meaning to them and he’s thankful for that. Some thoughts should never be said out loud. Bofur knows this and often stops him before any string of words can be put together to a coherent sentence.

The older dwarf takes him all the way home. If he is lucky they meet no one. If he’s less lucky, they meet Balin and the white-bearded dwarf shakes his head and helps Bofur. If he’s even less lucky than that, they meet Dwalin, and the bald dwarf will lift him like a child and carry him home. If he’s downright unlucky, they meet Uncle. He deliberately chooses not to think about that.

Bofur is getting good at it, helping him home. He drags him, lets him lean on him, and lifts him off the floor when he falls.

They never talk about it the next day or in the evening as he returns to the tavern and starts drinking again. He sees the looks Bofur gives him though, and they hurt. The dwarf has a face made for smiles and laughter, and all he does when he looks at Kíli, frowning in sadness and wincing in sympathy as he drinks too much and begins to make silly bets with the men in the tavern.

Can he empty three pints in five minutes? Can he sing all seventeen verses of “A tinker rode a snow-filled night”? Can he balance on top a barrel with Bifur inside it?

They make bets, and more than often he loses. But the humans and dwarfs like his tricks and stunts, so they buy him more to drink and dare him to do more bets. And so, the night goes on until he either passes out or nearly starts a fight. Then Bofur drags him home.

Bofur tucks him into bed as well as he can. He leaves a bucket by the bed and a mug of water on the nightstand. Then he leaves with a sigh.

He’s always awake when Bofur leaves. He pretends that he’s asleep but as soon as the door closes, he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Everything swims for his eyes. Sometimes he falls asleep quickly, but mostly he throws up in the bucket and cries until he passes out.

~*~ 

The days are short. He wakes up around noon, finding his home empty. He pretends he doesn’t care. He takes his bow and goes outside to practice. The sun hurts his eyes and he misses his mark more than a dozen times. Eventually, his body sweats out the last of the alcohol and he hits the targets with deadly precision. Sometimes he has spectators. They watch and laugh whenever he misses a shot, and grumble when he hits the spot.

He grits his teeth and keeps practicing. He stands in the sun and shoots for hours, until he’s drenched in sweat, his skin red and sore, and his fingers are bloody.

Then he goes home.

Thorin is there, washing off the sweat and grime from the forges. He doesn’t look up as Kíli enters their shared home.

They ignore each other. He waits. Thorin washed his hands and arms, and Kíli cleans and bandages his fingers. Only when they are both done, Thorin will look at him. And with the look comes questions.

“Were you drinking last night?”

“I drank until I blacked out,” he will answer truthfully, for there is no point in lying. There used to be but not anymore.

Then Thorin will turn on him like a wolf and the yelling will begin. It’s always the same song. _Do you have any idea of the shame you bring upon me? The people are talking; they say my house has no future. What would your mother have said? Have you no shame, boy? What are you thinking?_

And he will yell right back, not caring that it's his king he’s yelling at. Not caring that it’s the only family he has left. _Why should I worry about that? Who cares what they say? I drink what I want to. You can’t stop me._

They yell until one of them brings him up. It’s usually Thorin. But even when he doesn’t, there is always that one remark that always cut right through Kíli, making him grit his teeth and fights the tears that never seems to run dry.

“You are a disgrace, boy. I’m ashamed of calling you my nephew,” Thorin says and turns to leave. And Kíli can’t help himself.

“Unlike him.”

Thorin stops dead in his tracks and slowly, ever so slowly, turns around, and then he sees it. The pain in his uncle’s face, the sorrow that never seems to heal, and only get worse every time Kíli brings him up. It’s so painful to watch and he wonders time and time again why he drags it forward. Maybe to get a reaction. The first time he mentioned him, Thorin had struck him. There had been nothing since.

Thorin says nothing and his eyes are empty. But he knows what the man he once called Uncle is thinking.

It was the wrong nephew who died.

And Kíli agrees.


	2. ...who doesn't understand.

Fíli died on a warm summer evening. Pierced in the neck by an orc arrow. He bled out in less than an hour.

Kíli was at home.

Thorin held Fíli in his arms as life left him in thick, red drops. Running down his neck, his chest. It ran from his mouth, down his cheek and colored his golden beard. He tried to speak but choked on his own blood as well as the arrow. He couldn’t breathe. He died in pain and far away from his brother.

He left Kíli alone. He left him with the title of prince. He left him with a responsibility he had never been trained for. He left him with a grieving uncle, who couldn’t see past his own pain.

He left him split in half, the other part of him – his heart, his soul, his mind – ripped away from him the moment Fíli’s heart had stopped beating.

And he left him with the knowledge that if Thorin had been able to choose, he would have had it the other way around.

Fíli alive, Fíli breathing. Fíli training with sword and axes, mastering the right weapons like a proper dwarf. Fíli the bright beacon of light, a guide for their people and a promise of a better future.

Now they only had Kíli.

In Kíli’s family, it had all been so easy for Uncle. Fíli was the hero, the brave, the strong. The talented and passionate. Kíli was the weak, the soft and the strange one. The bowman and the human-looking.

He knew he was a failure. He was nothing compared to Fíli, and now the people had to settle for him. Clumsy, weak Kíli who had always been afraid of the dark.

He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be like his brother, and be the nephew Thorin wanted him to be. They wanted it too and tried to shape him into it. But he failed them. He wasn’t Fíli. He was Kíli.

None of them understood. Not his uncle, or Balin or Dwalin, not even Bofur who knew him better than any. None of them. So, he drank, he drank to their health and said to hell with it all.

But he made a vow. He swore he one day will make them see. Make them all see he could be as good as Fíli. That he was worth something. That Thorin somewhere, somehow maybe still loved him.

He just didn’t know how, so instead, he went to the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is really short, and the next will be even shorter^^


	3. ...who dies like I do

He doesn’t think of his promise as he jumps in front of the sword, letting it pierce him until the handle meets his stomach. He stares as blood and pain wells from the wound. Then the sword is gone and he falls. Arms grab him, hugging him close to a warm body. He looks up and sees Thorin cry.

He frowns. Thorin never cries. Not even at Fíli’s funeral. And never over him.

Thorin rocks him back and forth, saying his name again and again, like a mantra. And then other words join his name.

_I love you, Kíli, I’m sorry. I love you, Kíli, I’m so sorry. I love you._

He lifts his hand in wonder and touches Thorin’s cheek. He smiled and says; _I love you too, Uncle,_ realizing he hasn’t called Thorin that in nearly thirty years. Thorin howls.

Fíli touches his shoulder and helps him off the ground. They hug and Kíli cries his apologies into the golden mane. He apologizes for his anger and resentment towards his brother. Fíli apologizes for leaving. Thorin joins them and embraces them both, tears falling as he too apologizes to both of them. They forgive and press their foreheads together.

Mother joins them, then Father. Uncle Ferin and those the brothers have never met but knows by reputation. They are all gathered and they all leave together into the light, leaving behind everything but love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, right?  
> Anyway this was the end I didn't see coming, really! I had so many ideas for this story but it took over and apparently wanted to end there.
> 
> Thanks for reading^^


End file.
